I love that you love your pipes and a particular era of Americana/Tobacciana.
Without wanting to rain on your parade, but give me one commissioned pipe by Jason, or patiently wait for another American artisan estate for what you paid combined for your three pipes today.
But all power to you, if you have the budget, the space and the desire
Someday I’d like to send a hunk of seasoned Osage Orange (hedge) to a good carver and have a pipe made up.
Harry Hosterman was a good, kind man who lived in mortal fear of my mother catching him talking about pipes to me.
Many years ago Harry, who made a good living in Spout Spring Hollow as a sawyer opined that since Missouri didn’t have heath trees, if he was really cornered and couldn’t buy a real briar pipe, he’d use the roots of a hedge tree instead.
But if it’s a no name basket pipe, you can buy a nice fat billiard for $12 delivered:
Since it’s totally unmarked it was probably made in an American pipe factory in New York City, and because it has excellent grain likely before Hitler rolled his tanks into Poland.
What fascinates me the most about Lee is he had to live all through the war, knowing that after America won he’d get his shot at making the best pipes in the world.
Even by 1939, a billiard shaped Mediterranean briar pipe had become as common as a pair of bib overalls, like Harry Hosterman and my father wore when their wives didn’t demand them to dress up to go to town. Even their bibs were freshly laundered, starched, and ironed.
My father and Harry lived every day of their lives and never bought or “warshed” a stitch of clothing, and the mothers and wives and daughters never milked one cow, sawed one tree, or mowed one blade of grass.
Outside their homes, men were the master of all.
Inside their homes they were a slave to the most beautiful woman that ever flirted with them, and their children called Mama.
I wonder, if very many old time Christians are left. There really weren’t ever that many, then.
pipedia.org
